


drive

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: But also, M/M, Porn Without Plot, porn with feelings and relationship angst, some of which is unstated and some of which is not, summer of id fic, this was supposed to be cute idk what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-20 04:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: “Come on, John,” he says, low and exasperated.“Come on what?” John says, softer than he should. Smirks a little, a desperate attempt to hide the strange tenderness he can feel welling up within him."Stop fucking around,” Chas answers, slightly sharper than before — genuine annoyance, not performative — and John huffs.Reaches over again, grabbing Chas’s chin and turning it toward him. "Who’s fucking around?"





	drive

Chas stretches — tucks his left elbow around his right, and pulls his right arm against his chest; reverses it, left hand coming perilously close to John’s chest as he does. 

"Sorry," Chas mutters, distracted. Stifles a yawn, letting it peter out into a small, tired groan. 

John cocks his head, and looks at him — really stares, gaze traveling from the mussed hair at the back of his neck to the curve of his throat to the thick biceps straining his dark green jacket. 

"Chas," he hears himself say, perhaps more breathlessly than he'd like.

Chas, starring straight ahead, focused on the tree lined path ahead of them, doesn't notice, and manages a distant, "Hm?"

“I’m bored."

"Huh?"

"I’m _bored_."

Chas snorts, and shakes his head. "What are you, eight? It’s barely been two hours."

"Oh, so you’re not, then."

"Not what?"

John stares at the side of his face. Chas turns to look at him eventually, and John raises his eyebrows. 

Chas rubs the back of his neck as he sighs. “A little," he concedes, turning back around as John lets out a smug, crowing sort of laugh. “You wanna head back?"

_Yes_ , John should say — this was a waste of time from the start, there may be no vehicle on God's green earth less appropriate for surveillance than a massive yellow cab — but it’s been a while since he’s had Chas to himself like this, and he’s not above taking advantage.

He reaches over and ruffle Chas’s hair, grinning as Chas frowns and reaches up and pushes John’s hand away.

John holds back a laugh — something about Chas’s resigned annoyance always does that to him — and Chas rolls his eyes.

“Come on, John,” he says, low and exasperated. 

“Come on what?” John says, softer than he should. Smirks a little, a desperate attempt to hide the strange tenderness he can feel welling up within him. 

"Stop fucking around,” Chas answers, slightly sharper than before — genuine annoyance, not performative — and John huffs.

Reaches over again, grabbing Chas’s chin and turning it toward him. "Who’s fucking around?"

Chas opens his mouth to speak, and John kisses him.

Swift and deep and insistent, and Chas — as ever — returns it, not quite in kind: hesitant at first, tongue drifting into John’s mouth only after he determines that John's not about to pull away and declare it some kind of lark.

Chas cups the back of his head and turns toward him, and John grins. Drops his hand to Chas's knee, and slides it casually up Chas's thigh. 

Chas inhales — sharp, surprised, though John can't imagine why — as John strokes at him through his jeans. He's half hard and already panting, already grabbing at John — at his waist, his shoulder, his shirt, whatever he can reach. Hands everywhere, skimming along John's back, running through John's hair, even as he pulls back a little, seeking a different angle.

"Please," Chas mumbles as their noses bump, as their lips skim against each other between quick breaths. "Please tell me you didn't...Didn't engineer all this just to get me out here for...for this."

"Didn't engineer all this just to get you out here," John says, obediently, as he unbuttons Chas’s jeans. "For this," he adds, slipping his hand beneath Chas’s boxers. "Or this," kissing Chas's neck. "Or," he tightens his grip on Chas's cock and nuzzles against his shoulder. "Or this."

"John—" Chas starts, cut off by a soft moan as John's strokes quicken. 

“Just a happy accident, mate,” he murmurs, pressing another swift kiss to Chas’s lips before he leans over. 

The position's not ideal — he has to turn in his seat, kneel on the cracking leather as he bows his head over Chas’s lap. It’s inelegant and a little silly, frankly, or would be, if Chas’s scent, if Chas's hand on the back of his neck, wasn’t enough to have John’s own cock straining against his trousers. 

The seats are too slick to allow for any sort of stability and if it were anyone but Chas, John’d be slower to try this, too wary of a thoughtless thrust into his mouth throwing him off balance; he's courting a rather embarrassing tumble into the footwell and a particularly painful jab in the ribs by the gearshift as it is. But Chas’ll be careful and accommodating, and John won’t be there long: John’s barely started and Chas is already close, already hard and leaking on John's tongue. 

It’s strange, that he should be able to do this. He’s known Chas nearly a decade and a half, never quite managed to learn how he takes his coffee or what his favorite color might be, but he's learned, in record time, just how Chas likes his cock sucked.

Slowly, and carefully — lovingly, John would say, were that not its own bloody minefield. No need for exotic technique, with Chas, and he's never shown any particular enthusiasm for fucking John's mouth. John’s even taken him all in more than once, out of pride more than any sort of obligation. He'd loved doing it, that big, thick cock deep down his throat, choking him as he swallowed around the head. Chas was duly impressed and generally appreciative, but not, it must be said, precisely blown away. 

And so the rather charming fact remains: nothing’ll get Chas coming faster or harder than a bit of tongue-flickering, a few gentle sucks at the head, and some tight, swift strokes at the shaft. 

Chas goes quiet as he gets closer: soft panted breaths, the occasional desperate sigh. His fingers stroke the back of John's neck, playing with his hair. It's unmistakably fond and John can't help but wonder if it's muscle memory, a tradition developed with the last person who did this for him. A gentle if insistent plea not to stop, or a warning he's about to come.

The first time they did this, Chas had warned him directly, had breathed out a quick _John, John, I'm—_ and seemed shocked that John kept at it, swallowing what he could and wiping the rest off his chin as Chas panted under him and kept running his fingers through John's hair.

Since then, he’s been even quieter about it, all low, desperate sounds that John covets and chases and hoards away in his memories. It's still early days and John will occasionally discover something new, another happy, surprised hum or muffled moan, and greedily catalog it away with the rest.

Today is no exception: Chas comes, with a soft, sweet sigh that John hasn't heard before but instantly adores, and John swallows. 

John always swallows, with Chas — trusts him, for one, and more importantly, _wants_ him, as much of himself as he'll give. He tastes good and smells better, and when he's done, he’ll drag John up and kiss him, open-mouthed, breathless, savoring the taste of himself in John’s mouth.

John pulls off and sits up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, and finds himself being dragged out of his seat and onto Chas's lap.

Chas pulls him close. His chest is warm against John's side, and his arms are tight and solid around John's body. He kisses John — deep, and thorough, sucking at John's tongue. Breathing him in, like he's the only source of air he can trust.

Like he _needs_ John, and that’s — terrifying. But flattering, too, and one hell of a turn on, almost more than the broad fingers making quick work of John's fly and wrapping possessively around John's cock.

If it'd taken John no time at all to learn what Chas likes in bed, Chas had gone into this knowing, somehow, precisely what it is that'll drive John absolutely mad. It's a hell of a trick, from a man with minimal experience beyond the marital bed, and without any of John’s proclivities for sexual danger. But what he lacks in adventurous spirit he more than makes up for in enthusiasm, in intensity, in almost embarrassing drive to make sure John gets off, to say nothing of those massive bloody hands of his. 

He could tear John apart, effortlessly, and instead he’ll stroke at him, run his fingers up along John’s thighs, carefully wrap his palm around John’s throat. Hold him still, as he jerks John off, as he sucks at the back of John’s neck or nibbles at his ear. 

And he’s so bloody confident about it, too, but not smug, not smirking, not leering at John as he carefully riles John up, takes him apart, and leaves him a panting, desperate, filthy _wreck_.

“Come on,” he coaxes, as John trembles against his chest and buries his face in the side of Chas’s neck. “Come on, John,” as he kisses the top of John’s head, and tightens his grip. “For me,” he murmurs, and John — John's hardly about to _refuse_. 

He chokes out a long, low moan, hips twitching, shifting, trying to jerk up into Chas’s grasp. Chas ignores John’s efforts to quicken the pace and just keeps up the steady, achingly careful rhythm, wringing John out as he comes all over Chas’s hand and his own shirt. Cradling John against his chest, holding him up with an arm around the small of John’s back.

He kisses John’s face — his chin, his cheek, his forehead — and then John’s mouth, but only once John has turned in his lap, grabbing at the collar of Chas’s jacket to pull himself tighter against Chas's chest. 

It isn’t — _comfortable_ , precisely, with John’s thighs across Chas’s lap, back twinging as he twists as far as he can, desperate to be face to face with Chas as they kiss. And yet it’s — comforting. Chas's arm holding him close and upright, Chas’s tongue in his mouth. Chas’s hand around his knee, fingers rubbing thoughtlessly at the underside of his thigh. Chas is _everywhere_ as he comes down, as his breaths slow and the tingling aftershocks of his orgasm soften into warm, full bodied satisfaction. 

It’s wonderful until it isn’t — until John twists too far, thinking he might straddle him, wanting to be chest to chest and feel every soft, shuddering breath between them. Ends up slamming his knee against the gearshift instead, then letting out a sharp, pained, _“Fuck,”_ that has Chas snorting with laughter and John huffing indignantly into his shoulder. 

“Careful,” Chas teases, rubbing tenderly at John’s throbbing knee. 

“Oh, fuck off,” John groans, pressing one last quick kiss to the side of Chas’s neck before drags himself back into the passenger’s seat. 

Tucks himself back in, and glances over at Chas, whose eyes are shut and who's got his hand over his face as his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“Oi,” John says, giving his shoulder a quick shove. “Wasn’t _that_ funny.”

Chas nods in agreement but keeps laughing anyway, chuckling to himself as he zips up his own jeans. 

John rolls his eyes and opens the glove compartment, retrieving the pack of cigarettes he’d left there. Brings one to his lips, and reaches into his pocket for his lighter. Feels Chas’s gaze on him: he doesn’t like John smoking in the cab, but he's never _exactly_ forbidden it. Knows better than to try, probably. 

John sighs and rolls the window down a bit, then pulls out another cigarette and tucks it side by side to the first. Flicks open his lighter, and lights them both at once. Plucks one from his mouth, and holds it out to Chas.

Chas accepts it gingerly. “I don’t smoke,” he points out.

“I know,” John mutters around his cigarette, because he does: Chas was never much for it to begin with and stopped altogether once he got married. It’s just another of the many now-crumbling concessions made to ensure domestic tranquility, another remnant of Chas’s life that John’s taken upon himself to dismantle.

Chas rolls his own window down before taking a slow, acclimating drag. Chokes a little on the smoke, exhales, and takes another. 

John finds himself fascinated, leaning his arm against the side door and smoking fitfully as he watches Chas: the cigarette dwarfed by his thick fingers, his lips curved delicately around the shaft. Chas inhales again, and the tip glows red.

"I’ve missed this," John says, without thinking. He’s not even sure what he means by it; it hasn't been that long since they'd last fallen into bed together, about two weeks at most, and it had been — fine. Quick, and easy: Chas had kissed his forehead after, then rolled over unto his side and — John presumes, since he’d left soon after — quickly fallen asleep. 

Chas exhales. "I’m not the one keeping away."

John blinks. "Door's always open, mate,” he ventures, taking a shaky puff. “Come by whenever you like."

Chas chuckles, shaking his head. “You know I can't," he says.

_Keep getting lost on the way, do you?_ John wants to crack, but stops himself: they're already on a knife's edge and he's not a self-sabotaging wanker _all_ of the time. 

"Why not?" he says instead, letting the genuine curiosity seep through.

Chas throws John quick glance. “You know why not."

It's mild and matter-of-fact, not pointed in the least. John’s hackles go up all the same, and he takes a slow, steadying drag. 

"Oh?" he says, precise, swift, and sharper than he should. “Do I, then?"

Chas sighs. “It’s just — better if I don’t. I can’t just — turn it on and off, like —” he frowns, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray.

_Like you do_ , he was going to say. 

_Been doin’ better than you think, mate,_ John would say, if it were anyone else, but he can’t, with Chas. Can't lie to him, not right now, just to hurt him, and for no other reason than to salve his own wounded pride. 

He looks at Chas instead. “Would you want to?”

Chas considers it — John can read it on his face, the furrowed brow, the thoughtful flicker in his eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier.”

“It’s not,” John says, too quick, and Chas turns to look at him. Surprised, and strangely sympathetic. John drops his gaze, taking another quick drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out too.

Avoids Chas’s gaze for as long as he can, and then reaches over. Takes Chas’s face in his hands again.

He stares into Chas's eyes, watches his expression shift between wariness and confusion and fond exasperation. 

_Stop fucking around,_ he can practically hear Chas say, and half expects Chas to huff and pull out of John's grasp. 

But he doesn't. 

He keeps still, lets John look at him. Lets himself be stared at, lets John see all of his obvious annoyance. Lets John take advantage of his perennial patience for his strange and unpredictable whims.

_What do you_ want _from me_?John finds himself thinking, not for the first time. _What do you_ need _?_

If he was stronger, if he was braver, he would ask. _Just tell me, love,_ he'd plead. _Just_ tell _me. I’ll do it. I’ll want to. I’ll try to. Whatever it is. I'll_ try _._

But John is weak, and a coward, and Chas is neither and might actually answer.

He drops his hands to his lap and turns around. “We should — should be gettin' back, yeah?"

Chas hesitates for a moment — almost says something, or so John thinks — but seemingly decides against it. The jangle of keys breaks the silence between them, and the engine sputters back to life.

John feels the cab roll back onto the road, steadily picking up speed, and slumps against in the passenger’s seat. Eyes closed, heart thudding: another crisis averted, if only just barely. 

And then — Chas’s hand finds his own, fingers slotting between John’s, giving them a squeeze. 

“Okay,” Chas says, almost to himself, quiet but sure. “Let’s go home."

*

**Author's Note:**

> VAGUELY inspired by the last image in [this (nsfw)](https://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/186483214752) but in the end not as much as I'd've liked.


End file.
